


Fallen Angels

by tenandi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Detective Anathema might have a crush on a sweet bartender, Graphic Sex, LOOK OUT AZIRAPHALE!, Murder Mystery, References to Prostitution, Serial Killer, a thin line between good and evil, an inaccurate procedural probably, descriptions of violence, dubious consent - just in case, it's scary so don't read if you spook easily, just in time for halloween!, more on that later, references to dead birds (implied animal harm only), stalking/obsessive behavior, the media comes up with stupid names for serial killers, underage sexual activity (17 and 18 year old)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenandi/pseuds/tenandi
Summary: Aziraphale is a detective on the trail of a serial killer. At the same time, he's exploring a budding relationship with a provocative artist who shares thematic interests with the case at hand.-A tall figure sidled up to the bar a few seats away and Aziraphale inhaled his cologne. Armani, he guessed, keeping his eyes forward.“That looks good,” a warm voice beckoned. Aziraphale turned to look up at the man, a slim redhead who was all legs and arms. “I’ll have the same.” Newton poured and the man swallowed the liquid down rather than sipping his way through. He leaned over, one hand braced on the back of Aziraphale’s chair.“Now I know what you taste like.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 113





	1. Part I.

**Author's Note:**

> Eek! What do you think of Anthony? Is he super creepy or just misunderstood? Stay safe, Aziraphale!
> 
> XO let me know any tags you recommend! This one is a different genre for me.

Detective Fell ducked under the police tape and pulled his hat down to shield his face from the neverending London drizzle. His partner Anathema was waiting for him in front of the four story walkup, a grim expression confirming his suspicion.

“Another one?” he asked anyway. She nodded.

He followed her inside, careful to keep within the bounds laid out by forensics. The victim was a young Caucasian male, perhaps twenty-five years old. He was about halfway up the stairs, nude and prone on his stomach. His back was torn in two distinct gashes following along his shoulder blades.

“Thoughts?” Anathema prompted.

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on the body. “The next one will be just like this one.”

“He was a sex worker,” the brunette noted, eyeing the camera set up in the adjacent room. “Bet there’s nothing useful on that tape.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Did the victim have a bird?”

Anathema crossed her arms. “Not that I know of. Why?”

The blonde bent down and flexed his hand into a plastic glove before picking up a small black feather on the floor, twirling it between his fingers.

Outside, onlookers lingered despite the dismal weather. One of them carried a large black umbrella that almost covered his face, concealing the dark sunglasses he wore despite the rain and late hour. As the news crews began to thin out, Detective Fell finally emerged from the flat and walked toward his unmarked car. A small gasp in the crowd went unnoticed.

-

Aziraphale had worked plenty of homicides, but never a repeat offender, let alone an actual serial killer. The case he was on now had already been co-opted by the media, raising the profile of the murderer while also putting undue pressure on the precinct to make an arrest. Aziraphale didn’t appreciate being rushed, nor did he have any intention of jumping to conclusions to solve the case. He’d take the time to do it right, as he always did.

It had been a month since the second victim and the detective bided his time waiting for the third. The gap between the first two had been around six weeks. He expected the killer would make his next move in a fortnight, if not sooner.

The stress of waiting was getting to him, and after ending an earlier shift, Aziraphale decided to see himself to the pub halfway between work and home. A nice whiskey would do the trick to relieve his tension headache while providing an escape from thinking obsessively about the case.

He walked into the pub and saluted the barman, a kind but shy thirty-something named Newton. The brunette grabbed a bottle of Four Roses and filled a glass, already knowing Aziraphale’s preference. He slid it down the bar and the blonde caught it as he took a seat.

“Rough week?” Newton asked.

“Rough year,” Aziraphale replied. He sipped at his drink and hummed appreciatively.

A tall figure sidled up to the bar a few seats away and Aziraphale inhaled his cologne. Armani, he guessed, keeping his eyes forward.

“That looks good,” a warm voice beckoned. Aziraphale turned to look up at the man, a slim redhead who was all legs and arms. “I’ll have the same.” Newton poured and the man swallowed the liquid down rather than sipping his way through. He leaned over, one hand braced on the back of Aziraphale’s chair.

“Now I know what you taste like.”

Aziraphale’s face went bright red and his mouth dropped open but emitted no sound. The redhead swept past him, sauntering toward the door. He didn’t look back before leaving.

-

Fourteen days later, Aziraphale was standing inside a posh house near Soho. The third victim came right on time, like clockwork.

“That’s different,” he muttered as he examined the body. This victim had been cut like the others, but now tiny black feathers were pressed into the wounds as a dressing. Anathema frowned.

“What’s the significance?” she wondered.

The blonde exhaled heavily and squatted down. “He’s adding to his ritual. The fantasy is growing richer, more detailed.”

“What’s the fantasy?” Anathema asked, small lines creasing her forehead.

“I’m afraid we’re going to find out sooner than later,” Aziraphale replied. “He’s getting bolder. This one’s a businessman, I’m told. Must have chosen him while out in public.” His gloved fingers hovered over the victim’s hair, which was artfully curled.

“This isn’t natural.”

He stood, glancing at framed pictures around the room. In each one, the blonde’s hair was straight.

“He's playing dress up,” he muttered to himself.

-

Aziraphale slunk into the pub and he sat down heavily in the first booth he saw. Within minutes, Newton came over and handed him his usual.

“Thanks,” the blonde said.

“Everything alright?” Newton asked, knowing that it wasn’t.

“As good as can be,” Aziraphale replied. His exhaustion was thinly veiled.

“That one’s on me,” Newton offered before returning to his post. Aziraphale silently thanked the bartender in his head.

He’d only taken a few sips when a familiar scent hit him. He lowered his drink automatically as the redheaded stranger strolled by, apparently not noticing the blonde. Aziraphale watched him as he ordered from Newton and turned around, elbows braced on the bar. He scanned the room disinterestedly before his eyes landed on Aziraphale. The smallest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He collected his drink and sauntered over.

“Hi,” he said, somehow making the single word seductive. His golden-brown eyes roved over Aziraphale’s frame and he seated himself without asking. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, angel.”

The blonde stiffened. “I...can’t imagine why.”

The redhead flashed his teeth provocatively. “Yes you can.”

Aziraphale flushed and looked down. “I’m not...I don’t do casual flings. If that’s what you’re after.”

The stranger leaned forward, his palms sliding across the table just inches from his companion’s. “That’s not what I’m after. Not with you.” His eyes gleamed and Aziraphale bit his lower lip.

“Who are you?”

The redhead smiled shyly, morphing from confident alpha male to the picture of innocence. Such a transition shouldn’t be possible, Aziraphale thought.

“I’m Anthony,” he said softly. “Anthony J. Crowley. I can give you my birthdate for the database.”

“Database?” Aziraphale asked, puzzled.

“The PNC,” Anthony clarified. “I bet you run all your crushes names before you agree to a date.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened but the redhead waved his reaction away. “Everything about you says copper.”

“I suppose it does,” the blonde admitted. All he was missing was a mustache and a pair of Aviators. “Detective Fell. Aziraphale. Am I to infer you want to ask me out?” He couldn’t help the pleased smile that played on his lips. Anthony was startlingly attractive.

Anthony leaned back in the booth and his knee slid between Aziraphale’s, a whisper of a touch.

“Oh, angel,” he breathed. “I’m not asking. I’m begging.” He looked so earnest that for a moment, the blonde truly believed he had the power to break this unusual man’s heart.

“Maybe after the background check,” he offered, lightening the mood.

Anthony wrinkled his nose mischievously and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a few beats. “If you insist. Until then, why don’t you tell me every single thing about yourself?”

-

They closed the bar, and Aziraphale drank far too much as he fell under Anthony’s spell. The redhead hadn’t been joking when he said he wanted to know everything about him. His eyes never strayed from the blonde’s face except to examine his hands. When the intense focus became too much and Aziraphale commented on it, Anthony explained that he was an artist and the blonde was his muse. Aziraphale found himself rather flattered.

He allowed Anthony to walk him home, feeling protected and rare. Even though he was the one with a gun, Anthony seemed to anticipate their environment, eyes scanning the changing terrain like a hawk. They arrived at Aziraphale’s flat and the redhead maneuvered into his space, pressing the detective up against his door.

“You’re exquisite,” Anthony confessed. His fingers ghosting through the blonde’s curls. “Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Aziraphale’s gaze faltered. “You’re too kind.”

Anthony let out a bark of laughter and his eyes went wide and wild. “I’m not," he breathed. "I was made to grovel at your feet.”

The blonde began to protest but fell silent when Anthony’s hand rested on his chest. The redhead closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s lungs. His fingers clenched, slowly gathering the fabric of the blonde’s jumper in his fist, nails scratching through the thin knit. The moment almost lasted too long and Anthony backed away as if sensing it, his body crumpling into an awkward arrangement.

“I’ll say goodnight,” he stated. “But I won’t like it.”

Aziraphale paused as he noted the transition. It was like Anthony had a behavioral switch he could turn on and off. It should have alarmed him, but he found himself fascinated with every permutation of the redhead’s shifting moods. He was a mystery, and Aziraphale had become a detective for a reason.

“Goodnight dear,” the blonde said. He could feel his phone in his jacket pocket, satisfied to know that Anthony’s phone number had been safely stored within. He turned toward his door and slipped inside.

-

“This can’t be right,” Anathema scowled. “It doesn’t fit the pattern at all!” She held her cell to her chest and signaled to her partner from across the room. “We’ll be there as soon as possible,” she said, ringing off.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked as he cradled a winged cup of tea in his hands. He’d been floating on Cloud 9 all morning but refused to name the source of his omnipresent smile, much to Anathema’s chagrin.

She wasn’t teasing now. “187 reported in Mayfield,” she said with a baffled expression on her face. “Fits all the markers of our perp. Could it be a copycat?”

Aziraphale’s heart sank into his stomach. “There’s only one way to find out.”

-

The detectives pulled up to an alley and peered down to see a sheet obscuring the reported body. Local police were managing the scene, which had been stumbled upon around five o’clock that morning by a jogger. Aziraphale and Anathema moved through the sea of onlookers who parted like Moses’ sea in the wake of flashing badges.

Detective Sandalphon was already on the scene, stuffing a crumbly donut into his face as Aziraphale approached. The blonde threw a disconcerting look his way and bent down to pull the sheet back.

“Twenty-something male,” Sandalphon said. “It’s got ‘Backstabber’ written all over it.”

Aziraphale winced. “Is that what they’re calling him?”

“Well, ‘The Backstabber Killer’ is the full title,” Sandalphon corrected. “Bleeding media. Making cult heroes out of these sick fucks.”

The blonde’s eyes studied the gashes in the victim’s back, noting the lack of feathers this time.

“What do you think?” Anathema asked, hands on her hips. “Is this our guy?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered. “But a rush job. Something triggered him.” His eyes mapped out the space around the body and froze on an implement under a nearby garbage bin. He slipped on his gloves and pulled out an elaborate dagger. “You miss this on your first sweep?” he asked, brows knitting together as he threw a disdainful look at Sandalphon.

The bald man blanched. “I just got here,” he defended. “Jesus. That’s our murder weapon?”

The blade was scalloped on both sides and featured two twisting serpents on the handle.

“Something went wrong,” Aziraphale noted. “He wouldn’t leave this behind unless he’d been interrupted. Someone saw him long before the jogger came by.”

Anathema approached and held out an evidence bag, transferring the weapon carefully. “Please let there be prints,” she whispered.

“Hey!” a young detective came running down the alley and stopped in front of Sandalphon. “I’ve got some bad news. This guy was here on holiday.”

“Fuck,” Sandalphon muttered. “What’s the country of origin?”

Aziraphale’s face tensed and Anathema turned on her heel to hear the answer.

“America,” the detective said, twisting his hands together.

“Fucking fuck!” Sandalphon cursed, kicking the ground. “You know what this means.”

Anathema scowled as she filled in the blanks. “ FBI.”

-

Aziraphale’s fingers were beginning to wrinkle, but he wasn’t ready to get out of the tub. He sank lower, reveling in the steaming water as it soothed his aching muscles. After working most of the evening with a brash American agent named Gabriel Saint, he was ready for early retirement.

His phone chimed and he rolled his eyes, hoping against anything that it wasn’t work.

‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’

The blonde hummed happily.

‘Oh? Anything particular on your mind?’ he typed.

Three dots appeared below his message before morphing into full-blown bubbles. ‘Your eyes. Your skin. The way you laugh.’

Aziraphale wiggled a bit. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it bad.’ He stared at the screen and waited for Anthony’s response.

‘You’ve no idea. Dinner tomorrow?’

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. ‘Text me the address.’

-

Anthony rested against the wall and rubbed a hand over his face, a smear of bright red trailing down in its wake. He squinted and tilted his head, trying to see what was missing.

The painting before him was a near replica of Doré’s Battle of the Angels, a suffocating conglomeration of feathered and leathery-winged figures. Their limbs were a Gordian knot, each leading to another like a tessellation. He leaned in to add a small daub of rouge to one of the angel’s cheeks. Carefully. Tenderly. The figure’s white curls stood out amongst the nightmarish scene, and seemed to be made of the same clouds as Heaven above.

“Aziraphale,” Anthony whispered. “My angel.”

-

“Four victims in the span of three months,” Agent Saint announced. He was pouring over the homicide team’s photos of each victim as if he might singularly solve the case. Aziraphale wished he would, and kindly go away. “And this Frankenstein is still walking free.”

“Frankenstein?” Aziraphale turned with interest.

“Yeah,” Saint replied. “The feathers are conceptual.” He held up an image of the third victim. “At first I thought it was shamanistic, but now I think it’s a prototype.” He frowned and regarded the detective with no hint of amusement in his eyes. “This sicko is building bird people.”

Anathema let out a yelp of laughter while Aziraphale shot her a stifling look. It didn’t help for them to be rude to their guest, arrogant and headstrong as he was. And at least he was trying.

“Bird people,” the blonde repeated, with as much gravitas as he could muster. “So the gouges in the back are-”

“Where the wings go,” Saint asserted. He traced over the lines with a marker. “These are precise, perfectly mirrored angles. If humans had wings this is where they’d be.”

“Interesting,” Aziraphale murmured. He supposed a little extrapolation couldn’t hurt.

-

Dinner was a small Italian restaurant with opera music in the background. Aziraphale arrived early and wasn’t surprised to see his date already there, slipping out of the shadows in the dim light.

“Angel,” Anthony whispered, a hand gently pulling his knuckles up to his lips. Aziraphale shivered at the touch. Lord, but he was smitten too easily. The hostess led them to a table and the redhead smiled “I take it I passed the test.”

“You mean your background check,” the blonde clarified. He allowed himself a small smile. “Unpaid parking tickets though...it was a near thing.”

Anthony barked out a laugh and cradled his cheeks in his hands, staring adoringly at his date. “Lucky me to slip through the cracks.”

Their server arrived and Aziraphale had to school his expression. The young man was in his late teens, a seraphic, fresh-faced lad with a cheerful disposition. Exactly what London’s recent serial killer would love to get his hands on. Aziraphale blinked, trying to rid himself of the image of the waiter lying on the floor, bleeding out.

“Drinks?” the server asked.

Aziraphale quickly ordered a glass of wine and looked over at Anthony. The redhead was gripping his menu with white knuckles.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale prompted. “Did you want something to drink?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” the redhead spat out, never lifting his eyes. Aziraphale observed him for a moment, watching his features relax as the server walked away.

“Are you okay?” he prompted gently.

Anthony glanced up at him and sheepishly put his menu down. “Fine, just remembered something. I’m a bit moody, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I have not,” Aziraphale replied steadily. Anthony blinked once and chuckled.

“Bastard.”

“A bit,” the blonde admitted.

The server came back with their drinks and the rest of the date went along swimmingly. Aziraphale could hardly remember the last time he’d been out with someone, let alone had such a nice time. He didn’t want it to end.

“Head back to mine?” Anthony asked softly. “I’d love to show you my work.”

“Oh, your paintings! Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. He’d been eager to see the redhead’s art ever since he’d first mentioned it.

They made their way back to Anthony’s condo, a posh complex in Mayfair that was, for all intents and purposes, the polar opposite of Aziraphale’s cluttered home. The blonde could smell the paint as soon as they walked in, and followed Anthony to a backroom that he’d converted into a studio. Inside were several canvases in varying states of completion, each featuring angels and demons at war.

“Biblical,” Aziraphale commented. He was surprised at the content. “You didn’t strike me as religious.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and smiled. “It’s an obsession of mine. The balance of good and evil. How they complement each other. Even morph into each other. But certain things can’t be undone.”

Aziraphale focused on a canvas, noting the fine details. An angel screamed in agony as his wings were cut, scaly replacements already blooming in their place. The blood poured down his back in rivulets. The detective couldn’t help but find an easy comparison to the crime scenes he’d visited recently.

He felt Anthony behind him, a warm breath tickling at his neck. “You should let me draw you.”

“Is that what you want to do with me?” Aziraphale challenged, turning his head slightly.

The redhead let out a shaky exhalation and rested his forehead on the blonde’s shoulder. The move was so odd and intimate, like they’d known each other for years. “What I want,” he replied. “I can’t even begin to describe.” His arms encircled Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him closer. Anthony was hard already, and the blonde moaned at the contact.

“Too fast,” he muttered weakly.

Anthony hummed, nuzzling against the blonde’s cheek. “It’s not even about sex. Not really. My body’s responding to something deeper. The desire to knit us together. I want to breathe your air. See through your eyes. Keep you just for me.”

Aziraphale wanted to purr. For someone who was supposedly not interested in shagging too soon, those words certainly made the detective want to fuck the other man's brains out. “You’re a romantic,” he said instead.

Anthony tightened his hold on the blonde. “Will you sit with me for a while?”

Aziraphale nodded, following the artist to a loveseat with a drop cloth draped over it. He sat down on a cushion while Anthony composed himself into a ball on the other end, eyes peering out over his folded knees.

“Did you want to talk?” the blonde offered, feeling surveilled. Anthony’s careful study of him was unnerving.

“No,” the redhead replied flatly. “I just want to look at you.”

Aziraphale blushed but allowed it, pushing himself through the discomfort. It was like Anthony was sketching him sans pad and pencil. He could see his golden eyes flicking around, making mental comparisons and taking his measure.

“Are you drawing me in your mind?” he asked shyly.

The redhead flicked out his tongue. It traced his lips before retreating. “Why bother? You can’t improve on perfection.”


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied/ambiguous animal harm (no direct animal harm will be in this fic, but bird wings are part of the murderer's motif and will be mentioned), stalking/obsessive behavior, descriptions of murder/violence (not excessive, but just in case)

Anathema adjusted her round glasses and leaned forward. “You’re dating someone.”

Aziraphale gasped outright. “What?”

His partner rolled her eyes. “Too easy. I see right through you. What’s he like?”

The blonde considered her question. How would anyone capture Anthony’s complexity in just a few descriptors? “He’s confounding,” he decided. “Very curious. An artist.”

“Ooh,” Anathema breathed. “Your aura is...indecent, actually. He’s hot, huh?”

Aziraphale shrugged but his blush gave him away. “It should be illegal,” he muttered.

-

It was coming on seven weeks since the last murder. For whatever reason, the killer had yet to strike again. Aziraphale believed it had to do with the rash job in Mayfield. Such sloppy work didn’t belong in the ever-evolving portfolio, and perhaps the killer wanted to distance himself from it. He was getting ready for his next production.

Aziraphale didn’t like to think about it, and focused on his personal life for the first time in years. He’d been enjoying Anthony’s company at the theatre, at dinner, and at one another’s homes. Though things hadn’t progressed to a physical level yet, Aziraphale had a mind to correct that oversight as soon as possible. He was ready for more.

After a lovely evening at the ballet, Aziraphale invited Anthony in for a nightcap. The pair of them were sharing a bottle of wine when he decided to make his move.

Anthony had just set his glass down when Aziraphale pressed his hand to the redhead’s cheek. He pulled gently, turning Anthony’s face toward him.

Aziraphale’s eyes closed as he kissed the man, lips meeting soft resistance. The blonde froze and retreated, realizing that Anthony wasn’t kissing him back. When they made eye contact, Aziraphale was confused to see the redhead’s pupils totally blown.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

Anthony’s lips unfurled to show his canines like he was growling soundlessly. He lunged on top of the blonde, knocking him back into the couch. Anthony’s hands and mouth were everywhere, as if he might devour Aziraphale whole.

The blonde sighed as Anthony’s tongue soothed over where he’d nipped his neck a little too hard. Greedy fingers dug under his shirt and pressed into hot skin.

“Tell me what you want, angel,” the redhead rasped. “I’ll give you anything. Never deny you anything.”

“You beautiful creature,” the blonde uttered. “So attentive. But who takes care of you, Anthony? Who gives you what you need?”

The redhead paused and bowed his head until Aziraphale propped his chin up to see his eyes. Golden orbs glistened with unshed tears. The blonde’s knuckles caressed his cheek and jaw before trailing to skim down over his ribs. His hand slid in between their bodies and found Anthony’s long cock in his trousers, eliciting a soft hiss.

“Shh,” Aziraphale whispered, setting up a slow rhythm as he kissed Anthony’s temple.

“There you are darling,” the blonde coaxed. “You can take what you want.”

The redhead hesitantly propped himself up on his elbows and thrust into Aziraphale’s fist experimentally.

“That’s it,” the blonde encouraged. “I want to make you feel good.”

Anthony shivered and dropped his forehead on the blonde’s chest. “Mmph! Angel!” he cried out, thrusting faster.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Ohh,” Anthony groaned. “Yes!” His hips pistoned back and forth, working himself into a frenzy.

Aziraphale growled and curled his fingers in thick auburn waves. “Let go,” he whispered, and captured the redhead’s lips.

Anthony cried into the blonde’s mouth as his pleasure mounted, and soon he spilled over Aziraphale’s fingers. “Ngk!” he let out in surprise, shivering before he settled back on the blonde’s broad chest. He breathed heavily and Aziraphale smiled in satisfaction.

-

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Anathema breathed. “What the fuck am I looking at?”

Detective Sandalphon rocked on his feet before turning around and parting with his breakfast. A member of the forensics team looked on in annoyance at the mess.

“I hate to say I told you so,” Saint grimaced.

Aziraphale bent down and grimaced. Large black wings arched up from the victim’s back. “Looks like a raven,” he noted.

The body was slumped over, but left on its knees as opposed to the other victims. His arms stretched out on either side, the back of the wrists resting on the ground. Unlike the others, the cadaver was found in the ruins of a former church. Sunlight streaked through broken stained glass, casting prismatic colors over the scene.

Anathema scrutinized the chalk letters in front of the body. “Is this Greek?”

“Not quite,” Aziraphale said quietly. “It doesn’t look like a real script to me. There’s something fantastical about it. See this character here? We would associate it with Omega, but the others surrounding it are a melange of Hebrew, Arabic, and others I can’t recognize.”

“He’s made up his own language?” Saint asked.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I doubt he’s that clever. I have a friend who dabbles in cryptography. Maybe she can make something of it.”

-

Chimes rang out as Aziraphale walked into the occult shop, and a relentless wave of sandalwood assaulted his senses.

“Who goes there?” a brittle voice called out.

“Please, it’s me,” Aziraphale groused, brushing strings of fake spider web off of his coat. “You can call off the spirits.”

“Aziraphale!” a woman cried as she shuffled toward him wearing fluffy pink houseshoes. “So good to see you!”

The blonde was swallowed into the folds of her diaphanous kaftan until she spun away. “Tell me how Madame Tracy can assist you!” She sat on a large ottoman and tilted her head at him, blinking through extravagant false lashes.

“It’s part of the case,” Aziraphale replied, digging out his phone. Tracy had kept up enough with the news to infer which case it was.

The woman accepted the device and squinted at the picture. “Enochian,” she asserted. “How...divine.”

“What is it?” the blonde asked.

Tracy stood up and led him to a shelving section under a hand-written sign labeled ‘angels.’ She pulled out a book and began to thumb through the pages.

“So each character has multiple meanings,” she revealed. “Numbers. Actual letters. Whole words. Names.”

“And this one?” Aziraphale pressed, looking over her shoulder.

Tracy’s finger scanned down one column to the next before landing on what she wanted. “It’s here,” she said, indicating the script. “But I won’t say it aloud in this language. It’s the name of a demon. Very old.”

“A demon…” Aziraphale mused. “One who is known for anything specific?”

Tracy reshelved her tome and made her way over to a section on Zoroastrianism. She plucked out a thin booklet and handed it to the detective.

“Apauša,” Aziraphale read, flipping through the pages, stopping on an illustration of a hairless horse.

“The demon of drought,” Tracy explained. “But that’s not the literal meaning. The root word comes from a phrase meaning ‘burning away.’ Like the sun beating down on a lake until it dissipates into nothing.”

“And how are we to interpret this?” the blonde wondered aloud.

“I’m not sure, but take care if he tries to invoke another.” She hugged herself despite the warmth of the shop. Soft Tibetan chants echoed around them.

“Why’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

‘Because,” she said darkly. “It will mean he’s building an army.”

-

Aziraphale couldn’t get rid of the bags under his eyes. He’d been veering toward insomnia ever since the case began, but Tracy’s words solidified it. He stared at the far side of the room sipping black coffee, which he didn’t even like. More demons meant more bodies. Countless dead youths. And for what? A psychotic delusion that demons would inhabit these prepared corpses?

“And then what?” the blonde mused. Armies were made for battle. “Against whom?”

“What’s that?” Saint asked as he walked into the break room.

Aziraphale grunted and squeezed his eyes closed. “Nothing. Just trying to get inside a lunatic’s head. We have to stop him.”

“He’s not giving anything away,” Saint replied. “Forensics came back with nothing. No prints. No DNA. Not even a scuff of a shoe.”

“The blade?” Aziraphale asked, turning his head.

“Wiped clean. There was turpentine on the surface.”

The blonde knit his brows and worried his lower lip.

-

Aziraphale couldn’t sleep again that night. He glanced at the clock and saw it was going on midnight. If he took something to knock him out, he might not be able to get up in the morning. He groaned as he got out of bed and went to stand by the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. He stared down onto the street from the second story until a small movement caught his eye. Someone was lurking in the shadows outside of his gated front yard. Growing suspicious, he crept downstairs to get a better look.

He peeked through the curtain and nearly gasped in surprise. What the hell was he doing out there? Aziraphale flung open the front door and called to him.

“Anthony!”

The redhead whirled around from where he’d been standing like a sentinel. “Angel!”

“What on earth, Anthony?” Aziraphale hissed as he walked up to the property line.

“I’m sorry,” the redhead gasped out, looking nervous. “Please don’t be angry!”

“Come inside,” Aziraphale insisted, pulling the gate open for him. Anthony went along sheepishly, following the blonde’s lead.

Once inside, Aziraphale helped the redhead sit on the sofa and let out a sigh. “Care to explain what you were doing out there?”

Anthony pouted and looked down at his hands in his lap. “Missed you.”

“There are other ways of getting in touch,” Aziraphale offered. “A phone call? Even a text would do the trick.” He settled down on the couch and ran a hand through the redhead’s hair. Anthony leaned into the touch gratefully.

“I just think about you so much,” he whispered. “All the time. And I worry. I have to know that you’re safe.”

“And is that what you were doing out there?” the blonde chuckled. “Guarding me?”

“I don’t like the case you’re working on,” Anthony growled, fisting his hand in the blonde’s t-shirt. The detective had shared some general information, enough to reveal that he was hunting down a prolific killer. Naturally, that would unnerve anyone.

“I can’t disagree,” Aziraphale said softly. “It’s getting to me.”

Anthony tensed next to him before sliding out of his seat and onto his knees. “I can help you forget,” he whispered.

The blonde smiled down at him. “Can you?” Anthony nodded, his palms making contact with Aziraphale’s knees before coaxing them apart. He let his head fall back as Anthony pulled him out of his boxers, stroking him expertly.

“You’re so beautiful,” the redhead rasped. “Every fucking part of you.”

Aziraphale moaned as Anthony quickened his pace. “I want to swallow your cum,” the redhead whispered.

The blonde hissed in response to the filthy comment, and then the wet lips teasing over his tip.

“Uhnn,” Anthony groaned, licking along his shaft. “You taste so good, angel. I knew you would. I knew it.” He took him fully into his mouth, sighing. His tongue roved around the blonde’s girth before lapping at the slit.

Aziraphale cried out when he felt blunt nails digging into his calves, and the pressure decreased instantly. Anthony pulled off and rubbed his cheek on the blonde’s thigh voraciously. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “No one does. Your perfection. Your grace.”

The blonde looked down to watch Anthony suck and lap at the skin on his thigh. Suddenly, the redhead jerked up, raising himself up to look Aziraphale in the eyes. “I would do anything for you. Do you understand? Anything.”

The blonde was a bit alarmed by the transition, and the fierceness in his lover’s eyes. “I...I understand,” he said, not sure how else to respond. Anthony looked satisfied. His gaze shifted back to the blonde’s hard length and he licked his lips.

Diving back down, Anthony took him in as deeply as he could, making Aziraphale groan.

The redhead chuckled darkly and sucked harder until Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back into his head. By the time he slid his mouth back to the tip, the blonde was gasping for breath. Anthony’s mouth glided back and forth making messy, wet sounds. Aziraphale wasn’t sure who was enjoying it more. One hand shot out and buried itself in the redhead’s hair. He felt himself nearing the edge and couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Anthony!” he cried out as he came. “Oh, Anthony!”

The redhead slowly drew back, a smug smile on his lips. His tongue flicked out, catching a drop trying to escape his mouth. He climbed on top of the blonde and dragged his teeth along his jugular.

“My pet,” he growled. “My everything. My angel.”

-

Anathema was pouring over files strewn all over her desk, tapping her fingers in increasing vexation.

“He brought the body to the site,” she said. “Everything was staged.”

Detective Saint stood over her shoulder. He turned and examined the whiteboard with pinned photos of the victims. “Victim one. Twenty-three year old prostitute. Two back wounds that punctured the lungs. Murdered in a rented hotel room. Victim two. Twenty-five year old prostitute. Two back wounds, same C.O.D. Feather found on site. Murdered in his home. Victim three. Twenty-one year old U.S. citizen. A crime of passion. Two back wounds and an abandoned murder weapon. Victim four and a major escalation. Thirty-one year old prostitute. Two back wounds with raven wings lodged in the gashes. And as you mentioned, meticulously choreographed. The victim was murdered off-site and transported, suggesting a protracted planning stage. And let’s not forget the love letter he left behind.”

“Enochian,” Aziraphale said breezily as he entered the office. “The language of angels, apparently. And not a love letter, but a demon’s name. This demon.” He dropped the booklet he’d borrowed from Tracy on Anathema’s pile. “It was suggested to me that he’s gathering dark forces near to him. For protection or offense, I’m not sure.”

Anathema stood and stared at the whiteboard. “These guys don’t look like demons to me. They’re young. Fresh-faced. Cherubic. It’s like he’s spoiling them out of rage or jealousy. Revenge, maybe? A superiority complex?”

Gabriel blanched. “Pride was the first sin… How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn. You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations”

Aziraphale looked at the FBI agent sharply. “Isaiah 14.”

“You know your Bible,” the brunette smiled tightly.

“I have a feeling our killer does too,” Aziraphale mused. “We’re looking for a religious man who was spurned...perhaps by the church or his family, maybe both. A traumatic past where he never quite fit in.”

“And the blondes?” Anathema prompted.

“More rejection,” Aziraphale affirmed. “Perhaps a prototype of something he couldn’t have.”

A junior detective ducked her head into the room, interrupting his chain of thought. “Sir? We’ve got someone who says they witnessed the Mayfield murder.”

All three law officials looked at each other significantly.

“Lead the way,” Aziraphale said.

-

“Alan Hastur,” Anathema read as they peered at the man from the other side of a two-way mirror. “Married. Stable job. We were able to confirm that he’d been out late the night of the murder. Looks like he went out to drink with his co-workers and they closed the bar. After that, he said he went on foot past the alley on his way home.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Let’s not waste any more time. I’ll go in first. Ana, please join me after the first hour. Agent Saint, you can cross when we’re finished.” He walked into the interrogation room and took a seat while the others watched.

“Hello Alan,” he said gently. “I’m Detective Fell. I understand you’ve had an unpleasant experience.”

The man nodded. His pale hair was lank and drawn across his face. He looked nervous.

“It’s been almost two months since your ordeal,” Aziraphale went on. “Why come in now?”

“My husband made me,” Hastur laughed, a pinched sound that was painful to hear. “I was having nightmares and trying to pretend that nothing happened. I wanted to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it was.”

“Take me back to that night,” Aziraphale suggested. “You were having a good time with the lads from work?”

“Yeah,” Hastur said shakily. “We try to go out at least once a month. I uh, work for a company that sells history books. Me and my colleagues verify the research. I specialize in the 14th century.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, pretending that was helpful information. “And what happened toward the end of the evening?”

Hastur took a deep breath. “We closed it down, as usual, and went our separate ways. I live about six blocks from the bar. On my way home, I heard strange noises coming from the alleyway.”

“Can you describe them?”

The witness averted his eyes. “Choking. Muffled laughter. Singing.”

“Singing?” Aziraphale asked in surprise, tilting his head.

“Yeah. The um...the guy...the murderer. He was singing something. Sounded operatic, but I couldn’t place it. I came around the corner and saw him holding another man up. Their backs were to me and he was cradling the guy as if they were dancing. But holding him the wrong way, you know?”

“Was the man dead yet?”

“No. He looked drugged.”

Aziraphale reminded himself to review the toxicology reports more closely.

“But I could hear him saying something. Begging for his life. He began to thrash around and that’s when the murderer let him go. He only made it a few steps away before the killer was on him. He stabbed him in the back. It was like surgery. The victim fell down. That’s when I must have made a noise, because the killer looked back at me.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

“It was dark,” Hastur explained. “But I could see some of his features. He was Caucasian. Had a thin face and frame. He was wearing sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses,” the detective repeated. “At that hour?”

“Yeah,” Hastur affirmed. “I’ll never forget what he did. When he turned to see me standing there.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and Hastur looked into his eyes significantly.

“He laughed. I’ve never heard a more horrible sound. I would have sworn I saw the devil that night, Mr. Fell. He just looked...so happy. Like everything was right in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Aziraphale is missing some red flags here?
> 
> Also, we'll dive into Anthony's back story in the next chapter!


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of a dead bird (unknown cause of death), stalking/obsessive behavior, reference to teen sexual activity (17 and 18 years old), violent accident/tragedy under ambiguous circumstances, graphic sexual content between adults, loss of virginity

“Anthony!” Sister Loquacious called out, scanning the grounds. The redhead was always running off. She’d taken a special liking to him, but he also unnerved her sometimes. The older he got, the stranger he became. She kept hoping that if he surrounded himself with the right people, made some friends, that he’d come out alright. It was a difficult thing being an orphan.

The nun picked up her skirts and walked around the building, out past the rundown swing set and into the cornfield behind the orphanage.

“It’s a bloody maze,” she grumbled as she dodged through the endless rows of stalks. On the one hand, living on a rural property meant that the children were given direct access to the great outdoors. On the other hand, losing orphans in the cornfield didn’t make for a pretty headline, and they often got lost as they dared each other to explore its depths. Anthony was no exception.

She turned left and right, fussing as the dried leaves of the corn stalks snatched at her habit. Even in the early autumn light, there was something spooky about the field. It was too quiet. And beyond the first few rows, a bit like being out to sea. Vast and isolated.

She made her way to a clearing and saw the young redhead kneeling on the ground, absorbed in something before him.

“Anthony!” she hissed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

The boy turned with fear in his eyes. “It was already dead!” he swore.

“What are you talking about?” she asked as she came closer.

The redhead scrambled away, dropping the stick he’d been holding in his hand. Sister Loquacious looked down and suppressed her gag reflex. A maggoty bird was lying in the dirt, it’s wings outstretched.

Anthony began to sniffle. “I just wanted to see his feathers. I didn’t mean to hurt him!”

“Shh, now,” the nun said, recovering quickly. “It’s been dead for at least a few days. The circle of life, Anthony. Remember? We talked about this.”

The redhead nodded and ran over, clutching her skirts. “Like mummy and daddy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Everything dies eventually. It’s the way of the world.”

-

Anthony was unusually somber after the incident. He rarely talked to the other children anyways, but grew even more taciturn as the years went by. Little did he know that something was coming that would change his life forever.

Anthony had heard there was another boy coming to stay. He wasn’t particularly interested in the news. Boys were always coming and going. Many of them were adopted out into normal families. A few others, like Anthony, were lifers.

He’d arrived at the orphanage after his parents died at the tender age of three. He couldn’t remember them, so sometimes he made up stories and told them to the other children. He’d say they were inventors or doctors. That they used to take him on lavish Swiss vacations and lived in a beautiful mansion. At ten, another boy had tempted fate by calling the redhead out on his lies. He had to be taken to a special hospital to reattach his finger. No one questioned Anthony after that.

He was seventeen on that particular Christmas morning, just one year away from ‘graduation,’ as the nuns so lovingly put it. Anthony couldn’t wait to be released, being filled with visions of travel and adventure. He wanted to see the world. But any ambitions he held were instantly forgotten when he saw the boy walk into the home.

Michael was around the same age as Anthony, but they had little else in common. Michael was fair and porcelain-skinned while Anthony was freckled and awkward. Michael had bright curls the color of wheat. Anthony’s amber waves were a mess, and often ratty from a lack of brushing. But most importantly, Michael’s eyes were sea-glass, large and round and naturally inquisitive. Anthony’s flashed dangerously, and no one liked to look into them for very long.

To an outsider, Anthony appeared to have no reaction as Michael joined the other boys for dinner. They sat at a long table, and the redhead kept his eyes on his plate most of the time. He gained the courage to look up twice, and each time his heart pounded until he was dizzy. Who was this angel? And had he been sent there just for Anthony?

After dinner, the other boys went out to play and Michael began to settle in. Anthony lingered by the doorway of the orphans’ shared dormitory, watching him unpack. He didn’t have much, like most of them.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Michael said, startling the redhead. He looked toward the door and Anthony shrank away, hiding in the shadows.

“Are you shy?” Michael asked. “I’m shy too. It’s scary being somewhere different.”

Anthony held his breath and took a step forward. He hesitated before moving incrementally closer, eventually sitting on the bed closest to the door. Michael turned toward him, giving him a bright smile, and the redhead nearly passed out.

-

Wherever Michael went, Anthony was always close behind. He wouldn’t speak to the blonde, but mirrored his movements, sitting or standing in sync. Some of the nuns found it creepy, but Michael didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he encouraged it.

One day Anthony had followed him into the cornfield, trailing after as usual. He lost sight of the blonde and began to panic, feeling the loss like an untethered astronaut flung into space. He began to walk faster, then broke out into a run. Tears were streaming down his face when he stopped, turning in circles. A warm hand shocked him back into reality, and suddenly the beautiful blonde was there, pressing their lips together. Anthony didn’t know what to do. He stood stock-still until Michael broke away and laughed, a knowing look on his face.

Anthony began to sketch pictures of the boy. Sometimes from memory and other times from life. He’d clutch his drawing pad close if Michael came too near, but eventually he caught sight of the redhead’s drawings when he came upon the redhead unguarded in the barn.

“You’re an artist!” he sang merrily. “And a brilliant one!”

Anthony blushed down to his toes.

“Would you like to draw me like this?” Michael asked, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. The redhead gasped as pale flesh was revealed to him, inch by inch. The blonde walked closer to him and reached for Anthony’s hand. He pressed it to his chest. “You can touch me if you want.”

Anthony’s art supplies scattered all over the dirty ground as he bolted. He ran as fast and as far as he could, until his lungs gave out. He collapsed in the wooded hills a few miles from the orphanage, and it was there that he gave himself his first orgasm. And his second. And his third.

Something shifted after that. Anthony came back to the house a new man. He found Michael sitting by the window and snuck up behind him. “Hello angel,” he whispered.

-

Anthony turned eighteen, but instead of feeling elated, he was bereft. Michael wouldn’t find his own freedom for another handful of months, and the redhead wasn’t sure what to do without him in the meantime. He decided that he would live in the woods so that he could still see Michael everyday.

After telling Michael about his plan, the boys snuck out of the house to spend their last day together. They hiked up a steep hill in the nearby range and surveyed the land around them, trying to pick the best spot for Anthony to camp. They sat on the edge of a rocky precipice where they could see for miles.

“What should we do?” Michael asked, leaning against the redhead’s side.

Anthony hummed and rested his head on the blonde’s shoulder. “Anything we want.”

Michael giggled. “I can think of some of the things I want right now.” He pulled Anthony closer and began to kiss him, more deeply than they’d done before. The redhead groaned, and led Michael’s hand to his hardening cock.

“I love you,” Anthony gasped. “Do you love me too?”

“Yes,” Michael promised breathlessly. 

They laid back on the rocks and pressed their bodies together, kissing passionately.

Anthony heard a rustle of wings and stared up into the sky. A great black bird flew overhead. He gasped in pleasure. He’d never felt so complete. He rolled Michael over and the boy let out a yelp of pain.

“Shit!” Anthony cried out. “Are you okay?”

“Just a stick,” Michael laughed. He held out his hand and Anthony helped him up, the two of them sighing into each other’s mouths as the sun began to set. The redhead closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to be in the forest all by myself. Let’s run away,” he said dreamily. “We could go off together.”

Michael cleared his throat and squeezed Anthony’s shoulder. “It’s just a few months. You won’t be on your own for long.”

“On my own?” Anthony asked, opening his eyes and sharpening them. “I thought you’d come see me in the woods? Bring me food. Keep me company...”

Michael nodded. “As much as I can. But...you don’t even have a tent, Anthony. I’m not sure your plan is very realistic. Maybe you should just go to town and get a job.”

“You want me to go away?” Anthony croaked, his fingers tightening on Michael’s wrists. The nearest town was miles away.

“No!” Michael objected. “Not forever. Just think about it, Anthony. It gets cold out in the wild. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’d be cold no matter where I was if you weren’t there!” the redhead hissed, his eyes filling with tears.

“Look…” the blonde went on. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this anyways. My great-aunt wrote to me and said I could have a job at her husband’s mill once I graduate. She’d provide room and board, but I can’t take you with me. If you stay in the village and save up, you can move to London and we’ll be together again someday.”

Anthony was so shocked that he couldn’t speak properly for a few minutes. “You’ve been planning to leave me all this time…”

Michael let out a groan of frustration and snatched one of his arms back from the redhead. “No, I-”

Anthony couldn’t be sure what happened next, and in retrospect it didn’t make any sense. One moment they were touching and the next…

Anthony’s breathing stopped. He stared down into the void, perhaps a few hundred feet below them. He made an animalistic sound, unable to process what he was seeing. There, at the bottom of the cliff was the love of his life. Michael had hit against the rocky slope a few times before landing facedown in the sparse grass.

Anthony’s fingers clenched at the rocks before he backed away and began to tear down the mountain. He slipped more than once, battering his elbows, palms, and knees. When he reached Michael he began to shake him, but there was no response.

Anthony’s tears were blinding, and he wiped them away from his face angrily. “Angel?” he begged over and over again. “Angel, please!”

Large gashes showed through his shirt where the fabric had been ripped. Anthony pressed his palms against the wounds and came away covered in hot, sticky blood. He stared at his hands in a rising rush of panic and guilt. A large crow...perhaps the same one from earlier...landed a few feet from them and made a godawful squawking noise. Anthony jerked up, absolutely terrified. He ran away as fast as he could.

-

Aziraphale set Hastur up with a police sketch artist, who did his best to translate an accurate likeness. The detective wasn’t particularly impressed with it, but couldn’t blame it on the artist. He’d barely had anything to go on.

Agent Saint sneered at the drawing. “Looks like someone drew the Unabomber in the dark.”

“At least it’s something,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Are you working late tonight?” the brunette asked him. “I was thinking about grabbing a drink somewhere.”

Anathema walked into the room and laughed. “He can’t. He has a date.”

Aziraphale looked up in surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Because it’s Friday. And you’re always in a good mood on Fridays. Even when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Well,” Gabriel said, standing up and stretching out. “I guess it’s just you and me kid.” He waggled his eyebrows and Anathema sighed.

“You’re sure you don’t want to cancel?” she asked her partner.

“Nah,” Aziraphale said. “You two go on without me. Bond. Say hi to Newton on my behalf.”

Anathema blushed, and didn’t turn away fast enough for Aziraphale to miss it. He smiled to himself as he headed out the door.

-

Anthony looked incredibly nervous as he answered the door. His hands were trembling.

“H-hi!” he said brightly, trying and failing to hide his anxiety.

Aziraphale eyed him for a moment before growing suspicious. “Hello, darling. What’s going on?”

Anthony gritted his teeth in the semblance of a smile. “Er...not much. Just um…” He looked around his flat before inviting the blonde inside.

“You’re up to something,” the blonde smiled knowingly. “You forget I’m a detective.”

“Heh,” Anthony let out. “Believe me, that’s never far from my mind. Just um...wait there.” He walked away, his slinking step as sensual as ever. Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his small arse until he disappeared from view.

“Okay!” Anthony called. “You can come back!”

Aziraphale tried not to roll his eyes as he moved toward the studio. As he rounded the corner, Anthony was standing right in the doorway, catching him off-guard.

“Good Lord!” the blonde cried out. “Give me a heart attack!”

“Sorry,” Anthony giggled. He took a step back and waved his hands in the air. “Um...ta-da!”

Aziraphale’s eyes went to the canvas beyond and he drew in a quick inhalation, hardly able to believe what he was looking at. “Is that...is that me?”

The redhead shifted as if looking at the painting for the first time. “I suppose it is.”

“Oh, Anthony!” the blonde gasped. “It’s beautiful!”

“It’s just a study,” Anthony said. “The original has Jacob wrestling the angel, but you can see I’ve made some alterations.”

Aziraphale moved closer and examined Jacob’s face. It was Anthony, without a doubt. The redhead shuffled with some papers and brought a book to him, handing it over.

“Leloir,” Aziraphale read aloud. “I’d never heard of him.” He flipped to a dog-eared page and laid eyes on the version from 1865. “You’ve captured it so well, but I daresay you’ve made some improvements. Besides our faces, of course. You're a brilliant colorist, my dear. And your brushstrokes are so expressive. Exquisite.”

Anthony blushed and shuffled his feet on the floor. “I didn’t realize you were an art critic.”

“Ha!” Aziraphale let out. “I took a few art history courses. Nothing to brag about. But you...you should have a show, Anthony.”

“I’ve had a few over the last year,” the redhead stated with some embarrassment. “Just small ones. But this new series is much more expansive. I’ve been talking to a larger gallery. If they let me...oh, would you come, angel? Would you be there?”

The blonde shook his head. “Are you mad? You couldn’t bar me from the door!”

Anthony made a pleased growling sound and jumped into his arms. “I’m so glad you like it! If you hadn’t I...well I’d have burned it.” His voice went from chipper to maudlin so fast it made Aziraphale’s head spin.

“My moody artist,” he sighed. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

Anthony squirmed in his embrace. “What would like to do with me?”

The blonde pushed him back into the wall and hovered his lips just out of reach. “Shall I show you?”

“Not in here!” Anthony gasped, pulling him out of the room. He looked so stricken that for a moment, Aziraphale wondered if he was afraid of scandalizing his paintings. “Just um…the bedroom is more comfortable.”

Aziraphale went with him, and was surprised when Anthony practically flung him onto the bed. He looked ravenous.

“What do you like, darling?” the blonde asked. “I haven’t asked you your preferences yet.”

“My preferences?” Anthony asked breathlessly as he tore off his black shirt.

“I mean, do you like to be on top or bottom?” Aziraphale followed.

Anthony froze, his fingers pausing on the button of his trousers. “I haven’t...um…”

Aziraphale waited patiently.

“I haven’t done that before. Either of them,” the redhead revealed.

Aziraphale tried to conceal his shock, but it was too incredible. “You haven’t taken a lover to bed, for penetration, I mean?”

“No,” Anthony deflated. He crossed his arms over his skinny chest. “There was someone that I wanted to do that with a long time ago. It didn’t work out… And ever since...I haven’t wanted.”

“We don’t have to,” the blonde was quick to say. “If you’re not interested. It’s not a problem.”

“No!” Anthony protested, looking feral again. “I want you more than anything! Than anyone! Ever! I just don’t really know how it works in practice. But you could show me.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “My dear. It would be my sincerest pleasure.”

The redhead slunk forward and moved in between his lover’s thighs.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Aziraphale asked softly, his hands coming up to rove over Anthony’s exposed stomach. The redhead whimpered hungrily.

“You’d let me do that to you?” he rasped. “Be inside you?”

“I want you to,” Aziraphale whispered. “I want you to fill me up, Anthony.”

The redhead groaned and pushed him on to his back, climbing lithely on top as he showered him with wet kisses everywhere he could reach. They pawed at each other’s clothes, stripping off piece by piece until they were both totally exposed.

Their cocks brushed together and Aziraphale shifted his hips up. “You have lubricant?” he breathed out, mouthing down the redhead’s neck.

“Y-yeah,” Anthony replied. He reached to open a drawer beside his bed and pulled out a small bottle, pressing it into the blonde’s palm.

“Do you want to prepare me?” Aziraphale asked. “You’ll use your fingers to stretch me open. So I can take you inside.”

Anthony choked, immediately moving up to his knees and grasping himself at the base.

“So eager already,” Aziraphale said thickly. “I love to see you on the edge.”

“Fuck,” Anthony answered, reddening. “Just give me a second. Okay... Okay.” 

The redhead allowed his lover to squirt the lube over his fingers, and he rubbed it in his hand until it was warm.

“Let’s start with one, my darling,” Aziraphale guided him. “Nice and slow. Take your time.” He spread his legs and Anthony’s mouth fell open as he reveled in the sight before him.

“So beautiful, angel,” he whispered, admiring the soft blonde hairs around his opening. He traced around the outside, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction. The blonde’s head fell back and he visibly relaxed.

Eventually Anthony grew brave enough to insert the tip of his finger, and hissed as it was buried inside his lover. “Jesus!” he breathed. “You’re so hot! You’re burning, angel! And it’s so tight!”

Aziraphale moaned. “Imagine what it will be like when you’re inside me. When it’s your cock throbbing in my walls.”

Anthony keened, knitting his eyebrows together in wanton desire. “I love this,” he gasped, kissing the blonde’s inner thigh. “Oh, fuck. I could do this forever.” He continued until Aziraphale prompted him for more.

“Give me another, sweetheart.”

Anthony obeyed, using two fingers to breach the blonde. He watched in captive fascination as they disappeared up to the knuckle and squelched out again. “Mmmm,” he groaned. “Look at you.” As he slowly thrust in and out, he watched as the blonde began to squirm and rock his hips in time. “Is it good, angel?”

“You’re doing so well,” Aziraphale praised. “You can…” He demonstrated a scissoring motion with his fingers and Anthony mimicked him, groaning louder than the blonde.

“Oh fuck,” Anthony whispered. “This can’t be real. Oh, angel!” He bit into the blonde’s thigh and sucked the flesh until it bruised, his hand never idle.

“That’s it. Put three fingers in me now, my darling,” Aziraphale stuttered.

Anthony went pink and stilled.

Aziraphale chuckled lightly. “Believe me. I can take it. You’ll be good to me, won’t you Anthony?”

The redhead trembled as he inserted a third finger, and was amazed to see it slip inside effortlessly. “I want to suck you off while I’m doing this,” he confessed, eyeing Aziraphale’s proud girth.

“Another time,” the blonde gasped out. “Oh my darling, I’m ready for you. I don’t wait to wait any longer.”

Anthony began to sweat as he pulled his fingers out. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you, angel.”

“You can’t,” the blonde whined. “You would never.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Anthony vowed.

He lined himself up and stared down where the head of his penis met Aziraphale’s swollen opening.

“Anthony, please!” the blonde begged.

The redhead began to tremble as he pressed in, and hadn’t gone more than an inch before he let out a desperate sound. “Aziraphale!” he whimpered, somewhat terrified at the overwhelming sensation.

The blonde reached down and guided his hips, helping coax him in. When he was fully seated, Aziraphale pulled Anthony’s neck down for a proper kiss. The redhead made tiny gasping sounds, and Aziraphale looked up to see him on the verge of tears.

“What do I do now?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Sweet darling,” Aziraphale said, brushing his tears away. “Now you move, if you want. You feel so good.”

Anthony nodded and pulled out the tiniest bit before pushing back in. He keened, high and bright before repeating the motion.

“I’ve never felt this way!” he gasped. “Oh my god! Oh, angel!” He gained more confidence as he went, thrusting purposefully. “Is it good for you?” he asked, his eyes shut tightly as he savored the feeling.

“You’re amazing, my love,” Aziraphale replied, scratching his nails down the redhead’s back.

Anthony staggered over the word love before increasing his pace. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful. I can feel you, angel.” He repositioned himself and hit exactly where the blonde wanted him.

“Yes, darling!” Azriaphale cried out, his anticipation rising. “Just like that! Don’t stop!”

Anthony didn’t think he could if he wanted to. He surged back and forth, feeling less himself than an amalgamation of them both. “Oh fuck! I’m gonna cum!” His expression tensed and Aziraphale watched with barely restrained lust.

“Please,” he urged, reaching down to stimulate his own orgasm. Anthony followed immediately after, and darkness swallowed the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you all think of Anthony's origin story? And WTF happened on that cliff? (Plays X-Files music)
> 
> I'm having so much fine writing such a sinister fic. Thanks for reading!


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to death by a drunk driver

Aziraphale woke up in a haze. His body was sore but sated. He rolled over to find the space next to him empty, scarlet sheets bunched up where Anthony had lain. Dramatic music swelled up beyond the cracked bedroom door, prompting him to follow it. He pulled on his boxers and did exactly that.

Anthony’s flat was dreamlike in the early morning. The air didn’t seem to move, and the deep rich tones of his furniture looked even more pronounced, as if the artist had painted them to life. Aziraphale crept toward the studio door, smiling as he caught glimpses of the redhead moving back and forth between his canvas and the edge of the room. His hands were gesticulating wildly and his mouth was moving, singing along to the opera emitted by an old record player.

Aziraphale basked in the sight, lost in Anthony’s world. Suddenly, the painter turned and cried out, a hand moving to his chest as he caught his breath.

“Angel!” he laughed. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” the blonde said, moving to kiss him good morning. “Though you’d think at this volume you’d have woken the entire neighborhood.”

Anthony moved to turn the music down, looking sheepish, but Aziraphale caught his wrist. “Wait,” he said. “I want to know what this is. It’s stunning.”

The redhead nodded. “Tosca. By Pucchini.”

“Do you know what they’re saying?” Aziraphale asked.

Anthony’s eyes flashed and he set his brush down before pulling the blonde into his arms. “We’re coming up on an aria sung by Mario who loves the singer Tosca.”

Aziraphale rested his head on Anthony’s shoulder as they began to sway together. “Tell me what he says.”

The redhead began to speak in broken sentences, following each line.

“And the stars were shining,  
And the earth was scented.  
The gate of the garden creaked  
And a footstep grazed the sand...  
Fragrant, she entered  
And fell into my arms.”

Aziraphale buried his face in Anthony’s neck as he spoke, feeling the rumbling of his voice in his chest.

“Oh, sweet kisses and languorous caresses,  
While trembling I stripped the beautiful form of its veils!  
Forever, my dream of love has vanished.  
That moment has fled, and I die in desperation.  
And I die in desperation!  
And I never before loved life so much,  
Loved life so much!”

Aziraphale lifted his head slowly, surprised to see Anthony crying silently. His gaze was far away, anchored on a painting in the far corner of the room, just barely concealed by a drop cloth. Aziraphale turned his head and bit back a gasp.

It was an interior scene. Stained glass windows shone down on a shadowed figure crouched before the altar. Two wide black wings stretched out on either side of their body. The opera which had gone dormant in his mind suddenly became deafening.

“Fuck!” he let out, backing away from Anthony and hitting the wall behind him with a dull thud.

Anthony followed him with his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“Meeting,” Aziraphale lied, feeling his heart jump into his throat. “I’m going to be late.”

Anthony’s gaze was cold and measured. “Best get on with it then.”

It was everything Aziraphale could do to dress himself and get out the door without breaking into a run.

-

“I need a favor.” Aziraphale held the phone close to his ear, looking around once more to make sure no one else was in the office.

“I would assume so,” Beatrice said dryly. “You never call unless you need something.”

“And you do?” the detective snarked. When no response came, he smirked. “This one’s personal, Bee. I just need to make sure everything’s in order.”

“Just give me a name. You know how this works.”

“I really don’t,” Aziraphale objected, “And I don’t want to know.”

A cough of a laugh echoed through the line. “Yeah. You don’t. The name?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

-

“I don’t!” Anathema countered, bursting into the room. Saint followed hot on her heels.

“You do,” the agent sing-songed. “I’d have to be blind, deaf, and-”

“A pain in my ass? Yes, you are,” Anathema snapped, throwing herself into her chair. She chewed on her thumb while Gabriel went to sit on Aziraphale’s desk.

“He’ll vouch for it,” the brunette said, nudging the detective with his knee.

“Sorry. What?” Aziraphale asked, coming to his senses. It had been three days since he’d put in the call and still nothing. He’d been avoiding Anthony’s messages all the while.

“Nath has a thing for the bartender,” Gabriel chuckled. “Am I right or am I right?”

“Don’t give him an inch!” Anathema warned. “He’s been hounding me for the last two days.”

Aziraphale shot his partner an apologetic look. “Well…”

“Ha!” Gabriel burst out. “Confirmation loud and clear. Need a wingman, babe?”

“Ugh,” Anathema returned, throwing a pencil at him. “You are so annoying! And don’t call me babe!”

Aziraphale’s phone rang and he shot up as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Sorry!” he said quickly. “Gotta take this.” He quit the room, ignoring his colleagues’ intrigued stares.

“What did you find?”

Beatrice hummed. “A sob story. Are you trying to make me depressed? This guy is a total downer.”

“Tell me,” he urged.

“Okay, let’s see. Parents deceased as of 1978. Drunk driver. The kid was taken to St. Beryl, an orphanage in Yorkshire. Looks like he was there until he was eighteen, when he was transferred to a psychiatric hospital.”

“What?” Aziraphale gasped. “Why?”

“I’m a P.I. Even I can’t get psychiatric records, but I did call the orphanage. They weren’t able to tell me much. It looks like all of the nuns who’d been there in the eighties have died or moved on, but they did give me one name. Sister Loquacious. Apparently she left the same time Anthony did. She’s in London now. At the Tyburn Convent. I assume you’d like her number.”

“Text it to me,” the detective said, ringing off.

-

The convent was small and nestled into an unassuming strip of buildings just across Hyde Park. Aziraphale walked up and rang the bell, waiting just inside the covered entrance on the steps. Soon the door opened to reveal a kind-looking woman in plainclothes.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asked.

“I’m here to meet with Sister Loquacious,” he replied.

“Oh!” the woman said brightly. “Do come in. I’ll fetch her for you.”

Aziraphale sat down on a hard wooden bench, foot tapping nervously on the polished floor. He stood as he heard the shuffle of feet approaching, and saw the nun herself rounding the corner.

“Detective Fell?” she asked. Her face was wrinkled with age, but she looked to be in good health. He could only hope her memory was sharp.

“Sister,” he greeted. “Thank you for taking the time. I’d hoped to ask you some questions.”

Her expression softened, looking a bit sad. “About Anthony.”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Let’s go across the street,” she suggested. “It’s a lovely day and I usually take a walk after lunch.”

He helped the nun down the short set of steps in front of the convent, and they crossed the street to walk alongside the park. Sister Loquacious looked grateful to be outside, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the sight of families playing on the other side of the wrought-iron fence.

“It’s nice, you know,” she said quietly. “Seeing families together like that. I loved my work at the orphanage, but some children never got adopted. Such a shame.”

Aziraphale waited a beat. “Were you there when Anthony arrived?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’d only been there a few years before then. I took a bit of a shine to him. He was smaller than the others and had such bright red hair and freckles.” Aziraphale studied her, noticing how fond she looked.

“And he was a happy child?” he asked hopefully.

Sister Loquacious sighed. “I’m afraid not. He had great difficulty forming lasting bonds. He hardly spoke at all. He never got over his parents, you know.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Did that manifest in unhealthy ways? A temper? Lashing out?”

The nun stopped walking and observed the blonde astutely. “Why are you asking me that? What exactly is your relationship with Anthony?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, considering his answer. “I haven’t known him long, but I’ve grown rather attached to him. We’ve been um...seeing each other. Romantically.”

“Oh,” the nun chuckled before sobering. “And he’s been unkind to you, Detective Fell? Has he hurt or threatened you?”

“No!” Aziraphale cried. “Not in the least...but he’s an artist, you know. Some of his compositions are dark. Disturbed.”

“There’s a reason you’re not talking to him about this subject,” Sister Loquacious remarked, resuming their walk.

“It’s...complicated,” the blonde decided. “I’d appreciate your candor, if you’re willing to provide it.”

A preschool class approached them, hand in hand in a chain as they trailed after their teacher. Aziraphale and the nun pressed against the fence to give way, and the blonde’s eyes lingered on the last child, who turned with wide brown eyes as she observed them.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” the nun confided, waving a hand over herself. “They’re always curious about the outfit.”

They turned into the park and began to stroll along the trail.

“I like you Detective Fell,” she said. “I think you’ve got a good heart, so take what I’m about to say knowing that. There was...an accident. Anthony was ready to leave us, having come of age, but he had, at long last, made a dear friend. Being still a few months away from his own departure, the other boy was going to remain behind, and I don’t think Anthony was happy about it.”

Aziraphale nodded, listening intently.

“They disappeared the week before Anthony was supposed to leave. We were all so worried. It took a few days before we found Anthony in the cornfield. He’d been sleeping outside without food or water, covered in blood and grime. He wouldn’t talk about what happened.”

“Oh my god,” Aziraphale breathed.

“He was sent to a facility to help him deal with the worst of the shock, which was the diagnosis they gave him. In time, he told us that his friend...Michael...had fallen from the cliffside. It had been nearly a year by that point. Search parties fanned out around the area, but they didn’t find anything.”

“Was there an inquest?” the blonde asked.

“Somewhat,” the nun said, looking disturbed. “The police couldn’t do much of anything without a body. They thought maybe animals had...I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Please,” he said softly. “Did you believe him?”

Sister Loquacious gazed off into the distance. “He was such a lonely child. He didn’t have anyone until Michael came along. What reason would he have to hurt him?” She turned back to the detective. “Why would he do it?”

Aziraphale couldn’t answer her question.

“Anyway, it was a long time ago. I lost touch with him after a few years. I had no idea where he’d gone. But he’s an artist, you said? A proper one?”

The blonde nodded.

“It’s lovely to hear,” she said. “He was so talented. Poor dear, sweet Anthony. I can’t imagine him doing anyone harm.”

Aziraphale let out a brittle laugh. He couldn’t either. “I think I’m losing my mind,” he confessed. “I’ve been on a case for the last several months and it’s blurring the line between work and my personal life. My imagination is running wild.” He felt ridiculous. Paranoid.

“It’s hard not to imagine the worst,” the nun offered. “There’s so much darkness in the world. I can’t begin to speculate about what you’ve seen in your career. But sometimes the worst monster hiding under our beds is us. Our inability to forgive ourselves and others.”

Aziraphale took that in and ruminated to himself quietly.

“Does he make you happy?” Sister Loquacious asked after a beat.

The blonde turned toward her and smiled apologetically. “Yes.”

-

Anthony opened the door to his flat and blinked in amazement. “Aziraphale?”

The blonde was holding a huge bouquet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I ran out of here the other day and I haven’t responded to any of your messages. Work has been awful and I...I’m shit, Anthony. Can you forgive me?”

The painter nodded, slowly reaching out for the flowers. “These are lovely,” he said. He stepped back and Aziraphale walked in, still feeling nervous.

“You must have thought I’d abandoned you,” he said, eyes full of contrition.

“I...” Anthony started and stopped, placing the bouquet gently on a side table. “I didn’t know if… I thought maybe the sex-” His eyes watered and he covered his face, and Aziraphale was at his side instantly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, love,” he promised. “I swear it! I had a wonderful time the other night. And you were perfect. I’ve never had better.”

The redhead shook his head and wouldn’t take his hands from his face.

“Shh,” Aziraphale whispered, enfolding the man in his arms. “I’m so sorry, my darling.”

Anthony calmed and wiped at his tears with embarrassment. “I wouldn’t blame you if...if you didn’t want to be with me. I’m temperamental, and weird, and I paint disgusting things-”

“No, no, please,” the blonde beseeched. “I have more than enough faults for the two of us. Let me make it up to you. Let me prove how much I care for you.”

He leaned in and stole a kiss from the redhead, peppering his cheeks and forehead before returning to his lips. “Anthony, please,” he whispered.

“I need you so much!” Anthony keened, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s torso. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t ever lose you, angel! Not again!”

Aziraphale leaned back with a curious look on his face. “What do you mean, again? You didn’t! I-”

His phone began to buzz in his back pocket, distracting him from his train of thought. “Shit,” he said apologetically. “Hang on just a moment, darling.” Recognizing the number from work, he ducked into the studio and took the call.

“Detective Fell?” a voice crackled in his ear.

“Speaking.”

“This is Dr. O’Neal from the coroner’s office. I was the forensic pathologist on the American’s case. I just sent along a copy of the toxicology report you requested to your office. Nothing came back from the drug screen, but there was something else that was rather unusual. The cause of death wasn’t in question, but as standard procedure in homicides we screened the body via x-ray before autopsy. It came back with a hemithorax white-out and infiltrates in both lungs. In the postmortem, I took samples to rule out bacterial or viral infection and isolated an organic compound standarly referred to as C10H16.”

“Forgive me, Dr...O’Neal, was it? Chemistry isn’t my strong suit. In layman's terms, if you don’t mind.” Aziraphale picked up one of Anthony’s paint brushes to fidget with.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “It’s associated with essential oils found in plants, citrus peels, and resins. Considering where it was found, inhalation suggests it was in solvent form. My best guess is turpentine.”

Aziraphale dropped the paintbrush just as he noticed a bottle of the same on Anthony’s easel. “You’re certain?” he croaked.

“As one can be,” Dr. O’Neal said. “I doubt any of this is helpful to your investigation, but I thought I’d mention it, just in case.”

“No, I um...thank you doctor.”

Aziraphale waited for the call to disconnect before turning around. Anthony was looming in the doorway.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

The blonde cleared his throat and pocketed his phone. “I’m afraid not... I find myself in a difficult situation.”

Anthony’s face twitched as he took a step forward, eyeing him carefully. “Do you?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I didn’t want you to be a part of this.”

The redhead tilted his head. “A part of what?”

“The case.” Aziraphale inhaled heavily. “But I’m beginning to think it can’t be avoided. Anthony, I think it's time we talked about your work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably going to wrap things up in another 3 chapters. Things will start to become clear soon. Another nail biting cliffhanger til next time. x


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: negative self-talk, mention of a breakdown/panic attack

“My work?” the redhead asked sharply.

Aziraphale glanced up and paled. “It can’t be a coincidence.” He strode over to Anthony’s church painting and ripped off the drop cloth. “I’ve seen this!” he hissed. “The last murder...it’s too similar.”

“The FUCK are you implying?” Anthony growled. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because!” Aziraphale cried out. “It makes you look like a fucking serial killer! That’s why!”

Anthony backed out of the room to gain a safe distance. “What?”

Aziraphale balked. “You have to see. You have to know...” He charged past the redhead and pulled him along by his wrist. Anthony fought back, pushing the blonde away.

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” he spat. “This doesn’t make any sense! Tell me-”

“What?” Aziraphale shouted. “Tell you that the crime scenes look exactly like your paintings? That what you consider art is being replicated in life? What am I supposed to believe, Anthony?”

“I don’t know!” the redhead sobbed. “I don’t understand!”

Aziraphale grunted in disbelief, pulling up the few images he had on his phone. The ones he’d showed Tracy with the Enochian writing. “Tell me this means nothing to you!”

Anthony stalked forward to look at the pictures. “It doesn’t!” he spat. “Is it supposed to?” His face distorted into confused fear.

The blonde huffed. “You’re telling me you don’t recognize this script?”

“No!” Anthony shouted. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because…” Aziraphale floundered. “Because I know about your past! It has every warning sign there is, Anthony!”

“My…” the redhead began and stopped. “My past? Ang- Aziraphale!” He looked completely adrift, emotions conflicting on his face before he quieted. “What have you done?”

The blonde considered his next words carefully, though there probably wasn’t a right way to say it. “I met with Sister Loquacious.”

Anthony opened and shut his mouth several times. His breathing hitched and he stared at the floor. He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. “Get out.”

“Anthony, please,” Aziraphale began, suddenly feeling uncertain.

“I said…” the redhead trembled, barely holding back his rage. “Get the fuck OUT!”

Aziraphale held his ground for a few seconds before walking past the artist, making for the door. He hesitated just before opening it, trying to think of something else to say, but words failed him. He couldn’t explain away that level of betrayal. He opened the door and left.

-

A week later, Aziraphale put down the phone on his desk and stared at the wall, waiting for the shock to register. He could hardly believe his ears. Was he dreaming? Had the stress and insomnia finally caught up to him?

“What’s up, blondie?” Gabriel joked. “You look like someone just walked over your grave.”

“We have to go,” the detective replied, putting himself in order. “There’s been another one.”

Anathema shrugged into her coat and waited for Aziraphale to do the same. “Well?” she prompted. “What are we waiting for?”

The blonde’s face crumpled. “It’s...the site. I was just there last week.”

“Where?” Anathema pressed.

“The Tyburn Convent.”

-

None of the sisters had been harmed, but the ordeal was enough to cause a panic amongst the order. The janitor had the misfortune of coming across the body, which was arranged much like the last victim’s, this time in a living chapel.

“He just waltzed in here,” Anathema spat out. “And no one saw him?”

“The nuns keep a strict schedule,” Aziraphale said. “They wouldn’t be down here past vespers, the uh, evening prayers.” His attention was split between the writing on the floor, comparable but different than before, and the fact that the body’s hands were facing the opposite side this time, palms down. He wasn’t sure of the significance. He took a quick picture of the writing and sent it off to Tracy.

“What about CCTV?” Gabriel asked.

“They’re checking now,” Anathema assured him. She crossed her arms and stared down at the scene. “I need a drink.”

“Me too,” Agent Saint agreed.

“And me,” Aziraphale finished up. Anathema looked at him in surprise.

“But it’s Friday…”

“Yes,” the blonde said with an unhappy wince. “It is.”

-

“Love and law enforcement don’t mix. That’s why God made whiskey sours,” Anathema announced. She was a few sheets into the wind, but managed to hold her drink fairly well. Aziraphale wasn't as fortunate.

“It’s bullshit,” he said authoritatively. “All of it. Fucking hell.”

“Jesus,” Gabriel breathed. “Are you going to come clean or do we have to guess?” He arched an eyebrow, indicating how much he’d love to.

Aziraphale grimaced and downed his drink. If he said one word, the floodgate would open. He wasn’t sure he could deal with the consequences. A chirp from his phone saved him the trouble.

“Aeshema,” he read aloud. “That’s the inscription on the floor.”

“What?” Anathema asked, nodding at Newton who’d signaled delicately from across the bar. She held up three fingers.

“Hang on…” He waited for the incoming text. “Wrath,” he intoned when it came. “Another Persian daeva. A demon. Does anyone know any Iranian scholars, per chance? I have a feeling we should consult an expert.”

“I do,” Gabriel reported seriously. “I got in touch with him after the last one. Let me make a quick call.” He stood and separated himself from the group as Newton came over, administering shots. Anathema winked at him in thanks, and the shy bartender retreated as if he’d been slapped.

“Drought,” Aziraphale considered. “Wrath. What’s the connection?”

His partner squared off before downing her shot. “Does it fucking matter? Our perp is obviously insane. Why speculate? He’s a killer. That’s all we need to know.”

“But if there’s a pattern!” the blonde insisted. “If we could predict the next one… There’s always something, Ana.” He rubbed his temple in agony. He was developing a crippling migraine headache.

Gabriel wandered back, placing his phone on the table. “Go ahead, professor Godarzi.”

A tinny voice echoed through the line. “I was just saying that both stories are about moral victory. Tištrya battles Apauša. Aeshma battles Sraosha. In either case, the true foes are Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu. Equivalents, in many ways, of God and Lucifer, or good and evil.”

“Wait…” Anathema interjected. “You have interesting friends? No. Wait... You have friends?”

Gabriel smirked at her.

Professor Godarzi let out a heavy sigh. “Saint helped me pass a criminal justice course and now, I’m apparently indebted til the end of time. I keep hoping he’ll forget my number.”

“Lies,” Gabriel said with an eyeroll. “He likes me.”

“No one likes you!” Aziraphale and Anathema said at the same time.

“Professor?” the blonde ventured, looking ill as he pressed on. “You mentioned a moral victory. That means both parties are defending their principles. Are you suggesting our killer has them?” It was near impossible to believe.

“We all have our point of view,” Godarzi said carefully. “Perspective is subjective. What would Lucifer say of his fall, for instance? Was it fair to him? Most cultures agree that there is wrong and right. But what happens when both are true at the same time?”

“And this,” Anathema announced, “is why I dropped out of grad school.” She grabbed her partner’s shot and drank it down.

“Shh!” Aziraphale interrupted abruptly. “Please, professor. We’d appreciate any other ideas you could send our way. Thank you for your input.” He groaned and stared at the table, lost in thought.

Gabriel snatched up the phone and with a few pleasantries, ended the call. “Fell,” he said with a glare. “What is it that you’re not telling us? Why were you at the convent?”

The blonde flinched. “It’s private,” he snapped. “Can’t you just let it drop?”

Gabriel considered the request carefully. “For now. But if there are details you’re keeping from our investigation…”

“You’ll be the first to know, I assure you,” Aziraphale groused. “I’m going home. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted.” He dragged himself out of the bar, tightening his raincoat around him as the drizzle turned to a downpour.

He leapt from one puddle to the next, angry that he was ruining his fine leather brogues. He should have just hailed a cab, but he needed the headspace to think. Everything kept adding up and collapsing. He was certain one moment and then doubted himself all over again. Would it ever end?

As he turned to cross the street, he noticed a man doing the same half a block up. Another idiot, who like himself, had forgotten their umbrella. Aziraphale smirked and realized they were now walking toward one another. As the man stepped in and out of the streetlights, a glare flashed off the stranger’s face from under a dark hat. Sunglasses. In the dark. In the rain.

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, and the other man did as well. A shudder went through his body. He took a step back, and the stranger imitated him. He definitely didn’t like that. Aziraphale’s hand went to his gun, and he began to stride forward with renewed purpose.

“Hey!” he shouted as the man turned around, stepping into the shadows of a side street. “You there! Stop!”

Aziraphale rounded the corner and stared into an empty alleyway. His eyes darted up to the fire escapes on either side, but there was no one there either. He huffed. Maybe it was just some drunk fucking with him. He resumed his walk home, feeling frustrated and anxious.

Aziraphale made it to his street and saw a figure lingering outside of his house. They were pacing back and forth, a large umbrella overhead obscuring them from view. Having just experienced an unexpected encounter, he approached cautiously. When he came closer, he saw the person turn and lower their umbrella despite the rain.

“Anthony…” the blonde whispered. He picked up his pace and stopped just a few feet in front of his spurned lover. “Anthony, what-”

The redhead stopped him with a wave of his hand. He looked miserable. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

Aziraphale’s heart tugged and he gestured toward the door of his home. “No, I’m glad you did. Come inside.” The pair of them went in, tension circling around them like hungry wolves.

Anthony chucked off his gear and sat heavily on the sofa. “You caught me off guard the other day,” he said quietly. “I never expected...but you’re a detective. Of course you’d have looked into me. I just...wasn’t ready for that conversation.”

“I know I sprang it on you,” Aziraphale admitted. “It’s the case though...the similarities are striking. I’m deeply concerned.”

“I’m not a murderer!” the redhead spat defensively before visibly relaxing. “I don’t know what similarities you’re referring to, but… If I can help...or clear things up...I’m willing to.”

Aziraphale settled beside him and let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Before I start, you should know there was an incident at the convent where Sister Loquacious has been living.”

Anthony sat up abruptly. “An incident? What do you mean? Is she alright?” His face was stricken. Aziraphale wondered briefly if it could be an act.

“She’s fine. They’re all fine. But our killer was there, Anthony. He brought his victim to the site.”

The redhead shook his head slowly and slumped back. “We were just talking about her. You must think…”

“I don’t know what to think,” the detective admitted. “But I’m hoping we can get to the bottom of it. Where does your work come from, Anthony? What’s your motivation?” He leaned forward, taking measure of the redhead’s reaction.

Anthony closed his eyes and Aziraphale could see how exhausted he was. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

“You’ve spoken to Sister Loquacious, so you probably know most of it. Where I grew up. Why I was there. And my relationship to Michael. He was...everything to me. You um...you remind me of him quite a bit. At least, the way you look.

I’d given up hope of ever connecting with anyone. I had no friends. No family. Even most of the nuns despised me. When Michael came along I thought he was a gift from God. He’d finally heard my prayers and sent someone just for me. I loved him so deeply, Aziraphale.” He broke off, unable to continue for a moment.

“He didn’t judge me for being odd. He didn’t care what any of the others thought of me. He created a space for me in his heart. And we loved each other. But when it came time for me to leave I realized he didn’t feel the same extent of attachment that I did. In therapy, which I still continue, I learned that we were somewhat co-dependent, me more so than him. He was ready to move on with his life and I wasn’t. I’d allowed him to become my world and couldn’t see anything outside of that.

The day we went up to the cliff we argued. For the longest time, I wasn’t sure if what happened was an accident at all. I was so angry, Aziraphale. It took me two years in psychiatric care to realize that it wasn’t my fault.”

“You didn’t push him?” the blonde interrupted, eagle-eyed.

Anthony rested his elbows on his knees. “No,” he said softly. “He slipped. He pulled away from me and lost his balance. They told me I had a psychotic break afterwards. I was mute for the first year, and hardly heard anything that was said to me. Once I was able to speak, I told my therapist about what happened. And life, I suppose, continued.

Art was always important to me, but it became crucial to my survival, my mental health. My themes are all religious. It stems from my upbringing but also the crisis of faith that I’ve grappled with ever since I was a child. The angels and demons are what battle inside me, but I see parallels in the everyday. Good and evil. Forgiveness and revenge. These are universal themes, you have to agree.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said.

“I don’t understand how any of it connects to your case,” Anthony pushed on, running a hand through his hair.

“The killer has been staging scenes in chapels,” Aziraphale revealed. “The victims are posed in front of the altar. He uses bird’s wings to make them look like ethereal beings.”

Anthony grimaced.

“The victims are always the same. Young blonde men with curled hair, either naturally or styled by our killer. And he’s started to leave inscriptions, like the one I showed you before. The names of archaic demons.”

“So...barring the latter...you saw my work and thought-”

“I couldn’t ignore it,” Aziraphale answered. “And the way we met. Out of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said dully. “It figures... I haven’t been able to move past my relationship with Michael until I met you.” He looked up and tears glistened in his eyes. “So of course. First guy I meet who I want to be with and…” He broke off. “I thought I could heal. I thought you could help me to do it. And now I’m a murder suspect.”

The blonde shook his head. “If you were a murder suspect we’d be having this conversation somewhere else. I only wanted to clear things up, Anthony. I’m sorry for the way I’ve gone about it.” Something niggled in the back of his mind and he frowned.

“That’s not all, though,” he added. “The killer’s been using turpentine. I think as a substitute for chloroform to subdue and diorient his victims.”

Anthony’s eyes widened.

“You mentioned you’ve showed before,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “At least in a few galleries. How widespread was the promotion?”

“Not very,” Anthony replied. “They were small spaces on limited budgets. I’ve never even sold that well except through my website.”

“Website?” Aziraphale perked up. “Yes, of course. Would you be willing to share your transactions with me?”

“You just said I’m not a suspect,” the redhead objected.

Aziraphale stood up. “No...I mean… I just want to check. If someone is overly interested in your work. If the purchases are coming from the same place. I don’t want to alarm you, Anthony, but there could still be a connection to the case we’re not accounting for.”

Anthony stood up, looking grim. “You think I’m in danger?”

“I don’t want to go that far,” the blonde assured him. “But we should take at least a few precautions. And your future show we discussed...did you set one up yet?”

“Y-yeah,” Anthony said softly. “I was going to tell you the other night when things went pear-shaped. It’s going to be at the end of the month.”

Aziraphale smiled tightly. “Congratulations.”

“Ta,” Anthony replied. “It probably doesn’t matter now, but I was going to tell you something else the other night. I wanted you to know that I’d started a new medication to help my mood disorder. It’s been helping a lot. Evening me out. Helping me get organized. After we met, I wanted to be better for you, you know? I wanted you to… Nhh. Forget it. Stupid to tell you now. It’s over between us.”

Aziraphale winced. “Because you want it to be?”

Anthony scoffed. “Me? I mean...of course not. It’s...what the fuck would you want to do with me?” he laughed derisively. “You know everything now. My past. How fucked up I am. You thought I was a serial killer, for fuck’s sake. Maybe you still do. I’m nor worth your time, Aziraphale. Something to be feared and hated, yes. I’ve learned that by now. I never deserved you.” His lower lip trembled and he hugged himself around the waist as the blonde closed the distance between them.

“Anthony,” he said gently. “Sweet, Anthony. I’ve done nothing but doubt you yet...after everything I’ve put you through…your heart is still open. I’ve never met a more gracious creature. So soft under all the jagged layers. All the pain you never deserved. Not an ounce of it, Anthony.”

The redhead began to tremble as their eyes locked. “Angel…” he said weakly.

Aziraphale pressed his fingers against Anthony’s cheek. He leaned in and their lips met tentatively, fragile in the heavy moment.

Shattering glass erupted around them and Aziraphale reacted instinctively, grabbing Anthony’s shoulder and yanking him down. They hit the carpet as shards sprayed over their bodies.

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale’s voice pierced through the chaos and Anthony took a deep breath, careful as he took stock of their surroundings.

“What?” he gasped out. “What’s happened?”

“Stay down!” Aziraphale barked. He peeked up to take in the broken window and unholstered his gun. Staying low, he caught sight of a dark, unmarked car peeling out in front of the house. He grabbed his phone, dialing into the station as he scanned his living room. A heavy brick was laying on the floor.

He heard the line pick up and reported quickly before disconnecting.

“Backup is on the way,” he told Anthony. “Let’s get you into the bedroom. I don’t want to take any chances.”

The redhead spotted the brick and whimpered. “Was it vandals?” he asked. “Neighborhood kids being shits?”

Aziraphale escorted him to the back of the house, checking each window before proceeding. When they were safely in the bedroom he closed the door.

“I have no fucking idea,” he hissed. “But we’re going to find out. Anthony, I don’t want you going home tonight. Just in case.”

The redhead nodded anxiously, his eyes wild. “Can I stay here? With you? Is it safe?”

“I’ll ensure it is,” Aziraphale promised. “I’m going to have both of our places put on police surveillance going forward.” He relaxed a bit, noticing that he’d gone into detective-mode rather robotically.

“Anthony,” he tried again, coming to sit beside the redhead. “Everything’s going to be okay. Can you breathe for me?”

The redhead took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, okay.”

“That’s it, darling,” Aziraphale soothed him. “Keep breathing.”


	6. Part VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween ghouls! Good job to all the detectives out there who solved the case in advance!

Forensics didn’t come back with anything useful on the brick, and CCTV hadn’t captured the car plate in the pouring rain, but Aziraphale was certain there was something malevolent in the gesture. He was true to his promise of keeping Anthony safe, not only securing a surveillance team at their mutual residences, but also hiring a PI to follow the redhead everywhere he went. In this case, it was useful to call upon an old friend.

“The mopey one?” Beatrice protested. “Are you punishing me? Is this because I didn’t call on your birthday?”

Aziraphale exhaled slowly. “I’ll give you £200 if you can name the month of my birthday.”

Beatrice was silent for a beat. “Junetober.”

“And there we are,” the detective smirked. “You’re the only one I trust to do this right. Just make sure he’s okay for the next few weeks and report anything suspicious.”

“Fine,” Beatrice replied. “Februapril?”

Aziraphale hung up the phone.

-

Aziraphale reviewed the schematics for Anthony’s show at the Bloom Gallery. One entrance plus two emergency exits, and a moving floor plan of walls that could be adjusted to create clear sightlines. The curator would no doubt LOVE to hear his thoughts on that.

A small sound distracted him and he turned to see the redhead exiting the shower, a towel slung low on his hips. “Whatcha got there?” he asked.

Aziraphale closed his laptop and beckoned Anthony near. “Nothing to be concerned about,” he said, welcoming the tall man into his arms.

“That’s all you ever say,” Anthony returned. “Actually makes me more concerned, for some reason. You have a hunch, I can tell. Any reason you’re not sharing it with me?”

The blonde kissed the redhead’s wet locks. “Just stay focused on the show,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

-

One week before the opening, Beatrice rang up Aziraphale for an unexpected update. The blonde clung the phone to his ear, listening intently.

“We definitely have a stage five lurker,” she said. “At first I thought it was just a coincidence because he’s that good. I almost wondered if he had specialized training, but he’s made a few mistakes that were patently sloppy. He keeps his distance, but he’s almost always where Anthony is about to be. Sitting in a cafe, riding the tube, or crossing the street at just the right moment. As you suspected, I can confirm the sunglasses stay on no matter the time of day.”

“Photographs?” Aziraphale asked.

“Too risky,” Beatrice replied. “He hasn’t noticed me yet and I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

“Physical description?” the detective pushed.

“Tall,” Beatrice mused. “Trim. He wears bigger clothes than he should to keep himself nondescript. A hat that covers his hair, but it looks brown at the nape. Sharp nose, slightly upturned. Believe me, if you put him in a lineup he wouldn’t stand out.”

Just as Aziraphale had suspected. “Stay close,” he instructed. “I have a feeling he’ll be joining us at the gallery.”

“Let me guess where I’m going to be,” Beatrice chuckled.

“Oh come on, I know you love a stakeout,” the blonde returned.

“My favorite,” the woman replied dryly.

-

Aziraphale had reviewed the transactions on Anthony’s site, and was unsurprised to find a major collector amongst them. The account was anonymous and set up through PayPal. To track it any further, he’d need a warrant, which meant he needed a name. Another dead end.

The night of the opening finally came, and Aziraphale was proud but weary as he entered with the artist on his arm. It was amazing how people fawned over Anthony, although the redhead seemed to have a hard time dealing with all the attention. Several times he drifted back to Aziraphale as if cultivating a safe space. A port in the storm.

“Are you having fun?” the detective asked, squeezing his elbow.

“Mm, yeah,” Anthony replied with a blush. “Everyone seems really excited about the work. I’m sure it has nothing to do with some details of your case being leaked to the public.”

Aziraphale frowned. A reporter had indeed, gained insight into the killer’s M.O. and released a physical description of the scene at Tyburn. Aziraphale suspected the custodian who’d first reported it, but couldn’t be certain. Lots of people were eager to talk to the press, especially if there was ample compensation.

“Either way,” he said contritely. “It looks like you might be the next art icon.” He gestured toward a group of critics gathered around one of Anthony’s central pieces. They were practically salivating as they debated its meaning.

“Ugh,” Anthony let out. “It’s a living, right? I’d better go say hello.”

Aziraphale nodded him off and glanced out the large gallery windows. It was another dismal night, rain drenching the black streets like the River Styx. Spatters blew up against the glass as if vying to get in and escape the cold.

He stared for a few moments at the passers-by, becoming latently aware of one standing still near the edge of the sidewalk. Aziraphale tilted his head and blinked. The man was wearing dark sunglasses under his wide-brimmed hat.

“Shit,” Aziraphale mumbled. He grabbed his radio and signaled to Beatrice who was waiting in a car across the street. “I’ve got a potential here,” he said.

“Backup?” the woman asked nonchalantly.

“No. Stay here for now,” he ordered. He began to walk forward and the man on the street hurriedly walked on.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. “You’re not getting away this time.” He burst through the gallery door and ran after the suspect, heedless of cars crossing or pedestrians strewn across his path. The man had gone from a brisk walk to an all-out run, but Aziraphale was determined to keep apace. He caught up to the guy and grabbed his shoulder, slamming him against a storefront.

“Who the fuck are you?” Aziraphale demanded, yanking off the man’s hat and glasses.

A wide-eyed man looked back at him, mouth agape.

“Detective Fell,” Aziraphale hissed, flashing his badge. “Now fucking talk!”

“Oh shit!” the man replied aghast. His lower lip trembled and he began to shake. “Am I in trouble? I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong! Some bloke paid me to stand in front of the gallery. I didn’t ask any questions!”

The blonde released him and grabbed his radio. “Beatrice?”

“We’ve got something here,” she said, voice rising. “I think it’s our guy. He just walked in.”

“Get in there!” Aziraphale shouted as he ran, ignoring the man he’d just accosted. An alarm rose up a few blocks away as the detective closed the gap. The gallery’s fire alarm had been triggered and now all the guests were pouring out.

“Cover the exits!” he shouted into the radio breathlessly. He tore down the sidestreet, hopeful to catch their suspect fleeing, and barely caught sight of a car peeling away. “Fuck!” he screamed, crouching to catch his breath. So close. So very close.

“Zira!” Beatrice’s voice rang out. She was coming through the closest exit and looked terrified. “Did you get them? Did you stop them?”

“Them?” Aziraphale asked, straightening up.

Beatrice’s face fell as she walked in a wide circle, tearing at her hair. “I saw our perp go in!” she explained. “But he didn’t leave alone! Anthony was with him!”

“With him?” Aziraphale spat. “You mean on purpose?” He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“I know what I saw!” she shouted. “And it wasn’t an abduction!” She walked up to the detective and grabbed his lapels. “Anthony went willingly.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and shook his head. There were no words he could have used to respond adequately.

-

Twenty-four hours passed with no communication from the redhead, and Aziraphale began to grow angrier with each advancing minute. He’d been betrayed, had he not? Duped. Manipulated to the maximum extent. And he’d fallen for it every step of the way. It had been a game. An elaborate one with no clear outcome other than to toy with his emotions. He felt sick.

He wasn’t surprised when a text arrived from an unknown number in the middle of the night, but he was heartbroken. An address for a local church.

Aziraphale donned a bullet-proof vest and packed his spare gun, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation, at least physically. Facing down Anthony in all other senses was nearly too overwhelming to imagine. He steadied himself by relying on his professionalism. His training. He could diffuse a standoff. He could bring him in peacefully. Put an end to all this death.

Aziraphale drove to the church, which was undergoing major restoration on one side. If the blonde remembered correctly, this particular chapel had suffered a fire more than three years ago, but it had taken the community all this time to raise the funds. Aziraphale knew there was a lesson in it somewhere about patience and faith, but he wasn’t in the mood to absorb it.

Doggedly, he walked up the concrete steps and pushed the door open, gun raised under his torch. He scanned the interior from left to right, paying careful attention to the pews as he moved forward.

“Anthony?” he called out, his own voice echoing back. “I know you’re in here! Let’s not make this a dramatic production.”

He swung his light to the left and nearly shot a statue of Mary, her serene countenance an ironic intervention. He took in a deep breath to calm himself. Getting trigger happy was not the solution.

As he approached the altar, he raised his torch and settled on a figure slumped in a bright red and golden chair, one likely reserved for visits from the Bishop.

“Anthony…” he whispered.

The redhead raised his chin slowly, golden pupils narrowing in the light. “Aziraphale.”

The detective fought and failed to stave off his emotional response. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “How could you do it, Anthony?” he asked. “Why?”

Anthony regarded him coldly before letting his head fall back. “Mmph,” he replied. “Why did I…”

“What is this?” Aziraphale demanded, drawing closer. Anthony’s eyes rolled back into his head and he lurched forward even as his arms remained rigid.

“Run,” he whispered, head lolling to one side.

Aziraphale could see the rope now, binding the redhead to the throne. His disconcerting demeanor revealed as a drugged rather than intentional reaction. The detective swung his light to the side just as a shadow formed on the edge of his periphery, but it was too late. He crumpled under a direct blow to the head, vaguely thinking of the candlesticks on the altar. His vision swam and he looked up into a pair of black holes where eyes should be. Blinking again, he saw himself reflected back. The dark sunglasses that had haunted him.

The man above him smirked before pulling them off. Even in the dim light, Aziraphale could see the pale shade of blue reminiscent of his own. As the man’s hat was removed, sweet blondish curls sprang forth. It was like looking in a mirror.

“The fuck,” Aziraphale managed, his voice rough.

The man crouched down beside him, smiling like a lunatic. “Hello Aziraphale,” he said. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. Don’t be shy. Say hello to me.”

The detective grimaced. “Michael.”

The man’s teeth opened in an approximation of a soundless laugh. “Oh, you’re good! He told me you were good. Anthony, didn’t you say? You did, my darling.”

Aziraphale sat up and rested against one of the pews. Blood tickled down the side of his cheek and he wiped it away in annoyance. “What is this? Why are you doing this?”

Michael’s eyes widened until he looked like a cartoon. “Motive...but you are a detective. It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

“You’re mad,” Aziraphale huffed. “Was it the fall? Is that why you killed those men?”

“Killed?” Michael cried out. “I didn’t kill anyone! Anthony is to blame for that!” He swung an accusing finger toward the redhead, who was struggling to stay awake. Michael jumped up, grabbing Anthony’s hair by the roots and pulling. “You were so eager to replace me,” he hissed. “Any sham of a facsimile would do. And I marked them all, didn’t I? Your angels can’t be angels if they fall!”

“Anthony wasn’t with any of them!” Aziraphale argued. “They were innocent, unconnected!”

“No one is innocent!” Michael screamed before eyeing the blonde. “But some are more guilty than others.” He let go of Anthony and dropped down in front of the detective once more. “You took what should have been mine. You took him from me!”

“You disappeared!” Aziraphale argued. “He thought you were dead! What did you expect?”

“Loyalty!” Michael shouted. “You can’t know what that means to us. You weren’t there! We had nothing and no one outside of each other! The two of us formed the universe, everything good and bad within it. I was yazata and he was daeva...until the fall. I was cast down, you see, struck by unholy lightning, my white wings breaking into a million pieces as I hit the ground. And then he didn’t want me anymore. He became yazata and left me to die.”

Aziraphale grimaced at the logic, or lack thereof in the fantasy. It wasn’t much different than some of the schizophrenic conspiracy theories he’d heard from offenders in the past, but it was so much more elaborate. A mythology born out of despair. His eyes flicked to Anthony and saw him alarmingly conscious. The redhead was shifting in his chair and pulling at his binds. Aziraphale refocused on Michael, trying to keep him distracted.

“So Anthony became the good,” he repeated. “And you had to become the evil to compensate. But why did it have to change? Why did you need to kill people who had nothing to do with anything?”

“Ahura Mazda sent those imposters!” Michael spat. “He didn’t want us to be together, so He made replacements of me! I turned them into fallen angels, like myself, just to spite Him. Anthony would have been fooled by them. Just like he was when he met you.”

“So I’m an imposter?” Aziraphale asked, desperate to keep the maniac engaged. Anthony had worked his way out of his bindings and was making his way stealthily across the room.

Michael laughed. “I remember when I first saw you, just after my second kill. You were the best He’d sent yet! I knew that if Anthony set eyes on you, it would be over for me.”

“So why not kill me?” Aziraphale demanded. “Your greatest competitor?”

Michael frowned. “Because I had to see for myself. I had to know if Anthony would betray me, given the ultimate temptation. And he did.” Michael’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, he looked almost pitiable. Aziraphale drew up his leg, trying to bring the gun around his ankle closer to his hand.

“I’m sorry,” the detective said softly.

“I’m not,” Anthony countered, brandishing a small statue of a cherub. Michael turned toward him before being clocked across the face.

In Anthony’s weakened state, the blow wasn’t hard enough, and Michael dove at him, pinning the redhead to the ground. Aziraphale seized his gun from the holster and aimed it, arm moving too high and then too low as his head throbbed.

“Shit,” he gasped.

Michael’s hand was reaching toward the statue, finding it and raising it up in the air. Aziraphale looked on hopelessly, praying for his hand to steady. A shot rang out, and Michael went suddenly still. The statue fell out of his grasp as he swayed to the side, falling off of the redhead.

Aziraphale looked at his unfired gun before turning toward the sound of tapping shoes. Gabriel was striding forward, a smug look on his face. Anathema wasn’t far behind.

“Nice entrance,” the detective huffed. “Could have used you here a few minutes earlier.”

“And spoil the surprise?” Gabriel scoffed. “Never in a million years.”

A team of paramedics swarmed into the church as Anathema and Gabriel secured the scene.

“Right in the nick of time,” Anathema grimaced as she squatted down next to her partner. “Thanks for sending me the address, but a short synopsis of the situation might have been helpful.”

Aziraphale snorted. “It would have taken a lifetime to text it all out.”

“Voicenote, then?” she suggested.

“Oh. What’s that?” the blonde asked.

Anthony was secured in a blanket and came to kneel next to Aziraphale. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice still trembling from the ordeal.

“Fine,” the detective replied. “Never better. And you?”

“I’ve been worse,” the redhead stated. “I might not be working with turpentine for a long while. Acrylics, maybe?”

Aziraphale managed a small smile. “I was told you went willingly,” he said. “From the gallery.”

“I did,” Anthony admitted. “I was just so shocked. Michael showed up and he said he was in trouble. I didn’t ask any questions, I just went with him. I had no idea, angel.” He frowned at the pet name, making Aziraphale rally.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We can work on a new one, if you like.”

Anthony looked astonished. “Don’t tell me after all this you still think I’m boyfriend material. Who knows what other raging psychopaths I have in my past?”

Aziraphale laughed outright. “Something tells me they don’t stand a chance between the two of us. But I did doubt you again...maybe that shouldn’t be so easily forgiven.”

Anthony smiled fondly. “And yet it is.”

A paramedic broke them up, insisting that Aziraphale be loaded on a stretcher and checked out at the hospital for any residual head damage. Anthony stood and nodded to him. “I’ll catch up,” he promised.

Anathema crossed her arms, staring at the redhead until she gained his attention. “So you’re the one,” she said.

Anthony blanched. “I’m not...I didn’t!”

The brunette laughed. “I meant the one who was taking up all my partner’s time.” She glanced around the scene and shook her head. “You must be pretty special to make up for all this.”

“I hope so,” the redhead answered. “I mean...I’m trying to be.”

Anathema clapped him on the back. “How about I give you a ride to the hospital?”

Gabriel rounded them, standing in their path. “I’m afraid I’m going to need a statement first,” he said suspiciously. Anathema cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You can take it at the hospital,” she insisted, brushing past him. She’d only gone a few steps before turning back. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

Gabriel smiled and hurried to follow. “Right behind you, Nath.”

-

It took nearly a month for the media circus to blow past, but when it did, Aziraphale finally invited his boyfriend out with his colleagues. They gathered at Newton’s, lingering long after the bar closed down. For some reason, the owner didn’t complain. In fact, he joined them for the first time, taking a seat next to a very excitable brunette.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, looking pointedly at Gabriel.

“You say that like you want me to leave!” he complained. Anathema merely arched an eyebrow.

“I’m finishing up my paperwork,” he said at last. “Shouldn’t take more than another week. Then you’ll never see me again.”

Anathema was about to say ‘good riddance,’ but the joke fell flat in her head. Instead, she said, “That’s a shame.” Gabriel looked at her meaningfully and nodded.

Aziraphale swung an arm around Anthony’s shoulders just as the door to the bar swung open and Newton looked up in surprise. “We’re closed!” he called out to the newcomer.

Beatrice ignored him, coming to crowd around them at the small table. “Should have locked your door,” she suggested. She laughed as he stood to comply, accidentally catching the American’s eye. “Oh. Well...hello there.”

Anthony snorted and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “Maybe we should head out,” he said. “It’s been a long week.”

“Month,” Anathema corrected.

“Year,” Gabriel added.

“Speaking of years,” Beatrice inerceded. “How many did Michael get? I heard he pulled through the surgery.”

“They’re still in court,” Aziraphale responded, but it’ll be life. Hopefully it will come with some serious counseling.” He looked at Anthony and smiled in contrition. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to keep talking about it. We’re trying to move on from all the madness.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Then get moving, you two. I’m sure you have better things to do than hang out with this sorry lot.”

“Speak for yourself,” Beatrice growled. “I find this lot quite appealing.”

Aziraphale stood, pulling Anthony up with him. “I guess we’ll leave you all to it. All’s well that ends well, for now.”

The group agreed silently even as the wind howled outside. The detective stepped into it, shielding Anthony as a gale blew over their bodies. “Another terrible evening,” Aziraphale groused.

The redhead grabbed his lapels and pulled him close. “Maybe not so terrible,” he said, pressing their lips together as the storm raged on.

High above them, a black bird took flight.


End file.
